The Darkest Lie Read Free

and running to find out what had just happened. Or maybe not. As temperamental as members of this household were (cough too much testosterone cough), they had to be used to unexpected, violent noises.
              "Look. I'm not sorry." Gideon flicked his friend a glance, taking in the blond hair, the blue eyes and the deceptively innocent features that were somehow perfect for his he-man build. More than one woman had called him "beautifully all-American," whatever that meant. Those same women usually avoided looking at Gideon, as if even roving their gazes over his tattoos and piercings would blacken their souls. For all he knew, they were right. "But you're correct. I can't do this."
              Which meant that Strider was wrong and, yes, Gideon damn well could do this. So suck it!
              Everyone who lived in this fortress--and godsdamn, there were a lot of people, the number seemingly growing by the day as his friends each hooked up with their "one and only" (gag)--was fluent in Gideon Speak and knew to believe the opposite of whatever he said.
              "Fine," Strider said tightly. "You can. But you won't. Because you know that if you take the woman out of this home, I'll go gray from worry. And you like my hair the way it is."
              "Stridey-man. Are you hitting on me? Trying to get me to run my fingers through those mangy locks?"
              "Shithead," Strider muttered, but his anger was clearly defused.
              Gideon chuckled. "Sweetie pie."
              Strider's lips even twitched into a grin. "You know I hate when you get mushy like that."
              Boy loved it. No question.
              They snaked a corner, bypassing one of the many sitting rooms the fortress possessed. This one was empty. As early in the morning as it was, most of the warriors were still in bed with their women. If they weren't weaponing-up at that exact moment, of course.
              Out of habit, he scanned the area. In this particular room, portraits of naked men littered the walls, courtesy of the goddess of Anarchy whose warped sense of humor rivaled Gideon's own. There were red leather chairs (Reyes, the keeper of Pain, sometimes had to cut himself to quiet his demon, so red came in handy), gleaming bookshelves (Paris, keeper of Promiscuity, enjoyed romance novels), and weird silver lamps that twisted and curved over the chairs; he had no idea who those were for. Fresh flowers bloomed from vases, sweetly scenting the air. Again, he had no idea. Fine. He'd requested those. That shit smelled good.
              Gideon breathed deeply of that fresh, delicious air. Except he ended up inhaling a nose full of guilt. Sadly, that happened all the time lately. While he luxuriated in this, his would-be wife rotted below in the dungeons. Before this, she'd spent thousands of years in Tartarus, so that made him doubly cruel for leaving her down there.
              Really, what kind of man allowed such a thing? An asshole, that's who, and he was certainly king of them. After all, he was going to return Scarlet to the dungeon once his questions were answered. For, like, ever. Even if she was--or rather, had been--his wife.
              Yes. He was a bad, bad man.
              She was simply too dangerous to be permanently freed, her ability to invade dreams too destructive. Because when you died in one of Scarlet's nightmares, you died for real. That was it. The end. And if she ever decided to aid the Hunters, which could happen, scorned women and all that, the Lords would never be able to sleep soundly again. And they needed their beauty rest or they became snarling beasts.
              Case in point: Gideon. He hadn't slept in weeks.
              Slow down, his demon suddenly instructed. Moving too fast.
              Usually Lies was merely a presence in the back of his mind. There, but silent.